


Molko Is His Castle Wall

by evilmaniclaugh



Series: The Molko Diaries [6]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Exploration of sexuality, Gender Confusion, Gender Identity, M/M, Modern AU, Multi, Sexual Confusion, Sexual Repression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 14:05:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3980881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/pseuds/evilmaniclaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part six in the learning curve of sexually repressed, drunk!Athos with guy liner.  Modern day AU set in London around 2004 where Porthos and Aramis are 20 and Athos is 23.</p><p>In this episode, a secret is discovered, gifts are given and Athos is learning to fly. He might even get his wings.</p><p> <i>This is something removed from sex. A childish game of mummies and daddies. A role play of doctors and nurses. This is him being explored and examining his own response to it.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Molko Is His Castle Wall

Porthos is far from a slow learner, but it takes him a few more weeks of study to realise that Athos' gender confusion isn't all about sex. The visible differences are subtle: more lip gloss and less eye liner. Nail varnish smooth rather chipped. Clothes a size smaller to accentuate his narrow waist and slightly feminine hips.

This is about more than physical appearance though. Athos is tactile on these days. He's arousing rather than aroused. He'll curl around Porthos rather than stretch out and read. He's a slightly different person.

He's always a gift giver though, bringing them expensive super strength Belgium beers and trinkets from abroad. Porthos' favourite present of all is the nugget of heart shaped silver, crafted into three and set into matching leather bands. He'll never take his off.

Athos is a lesson in subtleties and contradictions and, from him, Porthos is learning to enjoy his own arousal much more. He can taste the pheromone build up and feel the hum of the blood long before he's hard. Even when he's stiff and raring to go, he can enjoy it, sometimes for hours, without feeling that urgent need to bang it out of his system.

"I don't understand how you get an erection so often," says Athos, who's tucked into Porthos' side, drinking wine and watching Hollyoaks whilst Porthos is trying to make sense of the Seven Days War.

"I'm twenty," growls Porthos. "Like Xander says: I get turned on by linoleum. Ignore it."

"Maybe I don't want to," says Athos. "Maybe I want to play."

Porthos' book falls to the floor with a loud thump. Athos has never knowingly initiated sex and, yeah, he's drunk, but that's no way to gauge it because he's always at some level of drunk.

"Can I play with you?"

Porthos replies with a nod and a gulp of arousal. "Anything you want, babe." His voice is on loudspeaker inside his head. Aramis will be home soon, which means they can go to bed together then stay there for the rest of their lives.

Athos turns onto his belly, leaning up on one elbow, his index finger travelling along Porthos' thigh and up the fly of his jeans. He moves to a cross-legged position and begins to unbuckle the heavy leather belt.

The tip of Porthos' cock has pushed free of the waistband of his pants. The skin has rolled back and the head is fully exposed, wet and glistening. As both men look down at it, it twitches, enjoying their attention.

"I've never really done this," says Athos, his face flushed as he pushes at Porthos' jeans, then manoeuvres him out of his pants. "It's always been hurried. Aggressive, I suppose."

"We've got all the time in the world," says Porthos. "I'm all yours." He feels the weight of silver around his wrist and it steadies him.

Athos smiles at him then leans forward and breathes him in. "I like the way you smell. It reminds me of toast or warm croissants. Ninon smells of lemon and tea." He plants a tiny kiss to the tip of Porthos' cock and laps up the bead of fluid. "It's sweet."

"Haven't you ever explored yourself?" asks Porthos, watching as Athos runs a finger up and down his shaft. He remembers spending hours alone with his cock when he was a youngster.

"No, not really," says Athos. "Half my life I wished I didn't have a dick and the other half I was tugging myself off frantically, knowing I'd spend a hundred years in purgatory for my sins."

"Nothing sinful about this," says Porthos as Athos folds his fingers around him and begins to stroke him in a syncopated rhythm. "That's gorgeous."

Athos dots his cock with closed mouth kisses and the innocence of it is arousing in itself. A lubed finger worms its way slowly inside him and, though it’s not Porthos’ favourite thing he lets Athos investigate. In doing so, he finds himself thinking, rather than reacting. He bears down against Athos’ hand, jerking with electric thrills at the nudge into his prostate. “Oh,” he says. “Do that again.”

This is something removed from sex. A childish game of mummies and daddies. A role play of doctors and nurses. This is him being explored and examining his own response to it.

It’s so delicate that he’s coasting. The hand that strokes him is doing so without the fervour of arousal. The mouth is gentle. The finger twists at the boundaries of his desires.

He’s touched Athos intimately, has been inside him and watched him play with himself. He knows the scent of his cock and the taste of his come and he’s seen him at his highest and lowest ebb, but the hint of tongue playing over him is new. He’s witnessed it countless times, swiping up wine. He’s been aroused by the sight of it and now he swells to the feel of it as it glides across his flesh, wet at first then dry and just as sensual with it.

Hearing a quiet huff of arousal, Porthos looks up to see Aramis newly arrived and watching their play.

“He’s close to coming, pretty.” Sometimes it’s pretty boy or pretty girl. Today, Aramis hasn’t been around Athos long enough to decide, but he knows his best friend intimately. 

Coasting has turned into imminent rocket launch and, with the added excitement of an audience, Porthos is careering towards take off. He expects Athos to pull away from him, but instead he stays where he is, gifting Porthos with tiny kisses and laps of a tongue, as finger and hand work together to push him to stratospheric heights.

Porthos lets loose an unrestrained cry of pleasure and watches as his come spatters Athos’ face, dripping off him in rivulets. “I'm sorry, babe. I made a proper mess of you,” he says in apology, hoping this won't be the beginning of the end.

“I wanted you all over me,” says Athos as Porthos cleans him with a tissue. He looks up through dark lashes. “You’re the right kind of mess.”

“And what about me?” says Aramis with a small smile. “I’m bearing gifts. Will you make me come for them?” He holds a paper folder above his head, laughing as Athos jumps up to try and reach it. “Not a chance, shortarse.”

“I’m six foot tall,” says Athos with a frown.

“In your dreams, darling.” Aramis grins and then his expression grows a lot more uncertain. “Will you kneel for me, Athos?” he asks. “Nothing crazy, I promise.” Athos gives him one of those wary looks, but Aramis soothes him with a hand to his hair. “You looked gorgeous with Porthos’ come all over you. I'd like...” He falters.

He wants the same, thinks Porthos. It’s not about jealousy; it’s a simple issue of balance. There’s a symmetry to this learning curve. It’s an experience for all of them to share as they open each other up to new feelings.

Athos nods then kneels and as Aramis unzips his jeans, Porthos steps back mentally. He decides to give them a moment to themselves, but when he gets up to make coffee, Aramis stills him with a look.

“Don't go,” he says, reaching out to him. “Stand behind me. Make me come with your hand.”

Porthos does so and, spitting into his palm, he enjoys the feel of Aramis, hot against his skin. With an arm wrapped tight around him, he kisses the shell of his ear then watches over his shoulder as Athos looks up at them both, make up smeared liberally, his lips tipping into a beatific smile as Aramis strokes his hair.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” growls Porthos and he thinks, for the first time, that this might be something more than a beautifully fucked up friendship. “I love this thing we have. We’re amazing together.”

Aramis is already close, turned on from watching them earlier, and as Athos leans forward to pet him, his legs buckle. Holding him up as he comes with a ragged yelp of joy, Porthos works him through his orgasm, directing every splash of semen over Athos’ upturned face.

When Aramis is done and leaning lax against him, Porthos examines Athos, hoping to see those eyes ink dark with desire, but there’s no sign of arousal. Regaining his senses, Aramis wriggles free and crouches next to Athos, cleaning him carefully, lovingly, and he’s purring from the attention, but there’s no hint of sex there.

“I’d love to suck you off,” says Porthos, hunkering down in front of him.

Athos shakes his head and turns to Aramis. “I’d rather have my present,” he says, his eyes lighting up.

Porthos is beginning to understand that there’s a disconnect happening here. Athos can do sex and he can have sex done to him, but it all becomes too much when he’s in that flux state of both. He likes to share in the experience when Aramis and Porthos are fucking each other, but it frightens him to be a part of it. It’s not the physical mess, he’s afraid of; it’s the emotional one. Molko is his castle wall.

Leaning against the sofa, Porthos makes a grab for Athos and pulls him close against his side. Aramis shuffles in next to him with the envelope in his hand and a wide grin on his face.

"Prezzie time," he says, taking out three tickets. "Front row at the Hammy to see your boyfriend and his merry band of men.” Athos tries to snatch them, but he’s too slow. “Not that you couldn’t have got hold of these yourself,” Aramis adds, cocking his head to one side. “I know who you are, Olivier de la Fère.”

Porthos thinks he's heard the name somewhere before. Perhaps he's one of these on trend artists who exhibits in the Tate Modern. Performance art of man fucking himself with a dildo. Comedy aspect aside, it has to be said he's a little hurt by this revelation. "Don't we deserve to know your real name?" he asks.

Athos stills and tenses. "Athos _is_ my real name. It's the name I choose to share with the people I like." 

His hackles are rising and Porthos strokes him and holds him in place, wishing he'd thought first and spoken later. "And Olivier?"

"Is a performance."

Porthos grins.

"What's so funny?" Athos scowls at him.

"Nothing." Porthos smothers his amusement.

"So, what is it that you _think_ you know?" Athos rounds on Aramis.

"I remembered that Ninon called you her little it-boy and so I went looking and found you in the gossip columns."

Athos' attitude melts away. "I'm worse than a whore. I'd rather be a whore."

Aramis tuts. "Don't be so dramatic. You get paid to turn up at yacht parties and to go skiing at Whistler. It must be hard being a socialite. Poor little rich boy."

But Porthos remembers Athos drunk and pitiful in his bed, claiming that he hated his life.

"I'm paid to pretend that I like people," says Athos coldly and he pushes to get away, but Porthos still has hold of him and won't let go. "There's nothing more pathetic than that."

To be the recipient of that is much sadder, thinks Porthos. "But you like us," he growls, hauling Athos against him. “You really like us.”

"Yes, I do," Athos says, looking at both men in turn. "Very much indeed."

"Then what's the problem, eh?" Porthos draws Aramis into the huddle. "It doesn't seem too complicated to me."

They sleep together that night with no negotiations or misunderstandings, Athos tucked in securely as Porthos fucks into Aramis and kisses him as if there's no tomorrow.

By morning, Athos is gone from the bed and there's no fresh coffee brewing on the stove.

*

Alcoholic kind of mood, has never been a more appropriate Placebo lyric. Christmas is the busy season for all the little it-boys and girls and Porthos gets to read about Athos' adventures rather than participate, occasionally picking him up from a drunken heap in the hallway and giving him a bath and a bed for the night.

Aramis too has been spending most of his time on the tiles... of the Bourbons’ roof if the lavish gifts appearing around the flat are anything to go by. Porthos misses him like crazy. He's the light of his life, he has been for years, and no amount of twinkling decorations can make up for his absence.

Porthos goes home to his foster parents for the holidays. They have a big rambling house in Braintree, filled with dozens of kids, new and old, and he's always welcome there. He uses the time well to catch up on his studies and wonders often if his boys miss him. No one calls, or even drops him an e-card with some dancing elves.

His return to the flat is understated. There's no one home when he gets in, so he puts the heating on and has a bath and is prowling naked around the bedroom, hunting for clean clothes when a voice makes him jump.

"You should be a life model. I could spend my life drawing you." 

Athos is lying on the bed, a smirk on his face, one knee hiked up and a bottle of wine protruding obscenely from the apex of his thighs.

"Aramis and I have missed you," he continues. “We didn’t know where you were.”

“I _told_ you where I was going,” says Porthos, lying on the bed next to him. He’s hard already. “You should try listening.”

“We missed you a lot,” says Athos. “We wanted you here.”

“How drunk are you?” asks Porthos as Athos takes a swig from the bottle and a dribble escapes and runs down his chin.

“We wanted to wait for you.” He reaches a hand down to Porthos’ cock and glides his fingernail from root to tip. “Undress me.”

“How drunk?” asks Porthos again. Is Athos telling him that he and Aramis fucked? Jealousy claws at his senses.

“Maybe I’m as smashed as you two were when you fucked for the first time.” Athos leans up on an elbow and smirks. “He told me all about it. You fucking his tight little virgin arse in that creaky old bed. You didn’t know how innocent he was.” He laughs and it's a bitter sound. "You do now."

“Stop being a-” Porthos sits up to examine Athos. He doesn’t know what he’s being. A bitch? A tease? Despite this, he’s harder than he’s been in a long time. 

“Undress me. Fuck me,” snarls Athos, drinking again from the bottle until Porthos takes it off him. “Just do it, for god's sake.”

“He tried this one with me too,” says Aramis, coming in and sitting on the bed. “Happy New Year, by the way, gorgeous.” He leans in to give Porthos a thorough kiss hello.

“I missed you,” says Porthos to Aramis and then he looks down at Athos, who’s squirming against his hand. “You, I’m not sure about.”

Athos frowns.

Porthos winks at him. “Neither Aramis nor I fuck drunk boys on demand, never mind how pretty they are when they’re in a temper.”

Aramis strips out of his clothes and comes to rest in Porthos’ arms. “I did tell him about our first time together. He’s not lying.”

"I don't lie," spits Athos and they ignore him.

“You should have told me you’d never done it before.” Porthos kisses Aramis and they frot together gently. 

“You were kind and careful,” says Aramis. “It couldn’t have been any better.”

“Oh no you don’t,” says Porthos and he and Aramis both reach for Athos who’s trying to make a break for it. “Talking is as much a part of a relationship as sex, whether you like it or not. Now what’s the bloody matter with you?”

Athos frowns again. “I want to get used to being fucked by a man and neither of you will oblige.”

Aramis smiles and kisses him on the forehead. “Well, that’s a shame because we only want to fuck you when you actually want us. There’s something dubious about screwing a guy who’s taking cock only because he wants to _get used_ to it.”

“Are you hard?” says Porthos.

Athos shakes his head dejectedly.

“I’ll make you a coffee. Aramis can get you undressed and we’ll take it from there.”

An hour later all three of them are in bed, with Athos, now naked, lying in the middle, still dejected but clearer eyed and less stroppy.

“I’ve got a game,” says Aramis, braced on an elbow and leaning over him. “We do something to you then you do it back to both of us. Thirty seconds only. Short bursts of teasing.”

Athos nods but then he qualifies it with words. “No kissing though. No French kissing.”

Porthos frowns. The first thing he’d been going for was that pouty mouth. Today, Athos isn’t pretty. He’s all boy, smudged and scruffy with a smell of fresh sweat and old wine rather than that expensive aftershave he uses often. He’s stubble chinned rather than elegantly smooth, but Porthos finds the raunch of it just as appealing.

Starting the game off with an easy play, Aramis slides in close and mouths at Athos’ nipple, circling it then flicking the tip of his tongue over the swollen nub and suckling fiercely.

Athos reacts as Porthos imagined he would, with a purr of pleasure and a buck of the hips. When it’s over he latches on to Aramis who pets his hair as he nuzzles at him. 

Then it’s Porthos’ turn. He’s developing a fetish for this barely sexual play of mouth. It tugs at him and he holds Athos to him, blissed out from the soft suction.

“Enough,” laughs Aramis. “Remember the rules. This is about sex not sleeping.”

“My turn,” growls Porthos, pushing Athos onto his belly and kneeling over him, sucking a bruising kiss to the sensitive flesh at the juncture of neck and shoulder. He’s fully aroused and his cock leaks a trail of clear fluid, leaving a glossy trail over the skin of Athos’ back.

The move is reciprocated and when Athos straddles him, Porthos can sense the tension. He hold himself clear, the pressure on Porthos almost non existent and when that mouth skates over the zenith of his spine it’s a flutter than a bite. Still uncannily sexy.

When Aramis is the recipient Porthos watches Athos carefully. He’d hate that they were coercing him again. Then he sees it, clear as day. Athos is enjoying himself. His wariness is as much a part of him as that hint of condescension in his voice. When he licks Aramis’ skin it’s with a fascination to find out what he tastes like. His rigidity is about sensation rather than discomfort. 

Aramis bucks Athos off and tumbles him onto his back with a chuckle of laughter at the affronted look on his face. “You turn me on too much, precious boy.” 

His cock is stretched taut against his belly and Porthos licks his lips. He hasn’t sucked Aramis off for so long. The kissing has been a distraction. Fucking and frotting allow him to have Aramis’ mouth whenever he wants it.

“What shall I do to you now?” continues Aramis, his fingertips grazing across Athos' neck and chest.

Athos lets out this low growl of pleasure.

“Like that do you?” Aramis scrapes his nails over pale skin, down, down until he’s teasing that hardening cock with gentle scratches.

Athos moans and pushes into his touch, keening when Aramis sits back on his heels and pulls him into his lap.

“Now me,” says Aramis. “I like it too.”

This is so strange, thinks Porthos. To be detached from this and yet as enmeshed as if he were in the middle of them. They’re so beautiful, naked and resting together, erections almost touching, mouths close enough to kiss. Athos draws his nails down Aramis’ chest, teasing both nipples and increasing the pressure until there’s a trail of tiny pink welts. 

Aramis throws his head back and sighs as Athos’ fingers ghost over his cock. “Porthos’ turn,” he says in a voice thick with arousal.

Athos clambers onto Porthos, relaxed now, thighs gripping him tight. He’s fully hard, a bead of fluid forming at the tip and Porthos, licks his lips and swallows involuntarily. How can these innocent games be so exciting? As those fingers tease and scratch at him, a fire ignites and he has to tamp down the urge to lift Athos and seat him on his cock. Athos clamps a hand around around his shaft, fingernails digging into his most sensitive parts, and Porthos lets out a strangled cry of need.

Aramis drags Athos off and lays him supine on the bed. “We’re going to play with you together, okay?”

“Yes. Please. Please.” Athos’ voice is hoarse and broken.

Aramis pushes him down onto the mattress and spreads him, wetting his hand with slick and touching him intimately, watching him for signs of danger. "There's a boy," he croons as he pushes a single finger inside him.

Porthos guards Athos' flank, running a hand over him, slow and steady. His head is buzzing with sex, all the things he wants to do, and he ruts up against that slim frame, his cock gliding wet over smooth skin.

Leaving Athos in a state of squirming frustration, Aramis then lies on his back and tucks his hands behind his neck. "The condoms are in the drawer," he says. "Why don't you put one on me then sit on my cock?"

Athos stiffens, but Porthos keeps up the comfort with the gentlest of touches. This is a surprise move on Aramis' part, but it's a good one, especially after the last time they tried to have sex together. If Athos wants to fuck them then he should be the one to initiate it. Those wide blue eyes turn to Porthos for reassurance and Porthos nods. "If you want to, babe. We can do anything you want to. You know that."

Porthos moves his hand to Athos' cock which is leaking wet and rigid with need. He leans over to lick up the trickle of fluid and Athos rubs up against his lips. "Will you help me?" he murmurs.

It's a slight, yet significant change to the plan and Porthos looks to Aramis who shrugs. "As long as no one ends up crying in the bathtub," he says.

Athos huffs with nervous laughter. "I won't. I promise," he says.

It's the most sober Porthos has seen him in months and with serious intent on his face, he leans over to the drawer, ripping open a condom wrapper and approaching Aramis, all jitter and nerves. 

Porthos stays close, comforting him with contact and a constant flow of words. He reaches out to stroke Aramis to full hardness, his left hand gliding down Athos' spine, down lower, twisting into him then fingering him with rhythmic thrusts.

"I can't wait to see you fuck each other," he murmurs, his lips against Athos' ear. "You're so beautiful together. I'm a lucky man to have you."

Panting with desire, Athos rolls the condom over Aramis' cock and then straddles his body, remaining poised above him for an age.

"Jesus," moans Aramis. "Fuck me, Athos. I'm dying here." 

Aramis' control is lost. This is the mating call of a needy twenty year old with a raging hard on, who's, right now, playing with fire. 

It could go either of two ways, thinks Porthos. Athos could run from them, or... He stares with avaricious, green tinted pleasure as Athos holds Aramis' cock steady and sinks down onto him, arched backwards into an insane curve as he takes all of him inside in one striking manoeuvre.

"This is you fucking him and being fucked because you want it," growls Porthos, kneeling up behind Athos, hands on his shoulders. "You look bloody incredible."

Athos turns a swift one eighty, remaining neatly impaled as he does so. He smiles at Porthos and the sex show is just for him as Aramis' fingertips etch prints into his narrow hips.

Porthos reaches for himself and watches fascinated as his movements are mirrored. It's the first time he's seen Athos enjoy this state of give and take, abandoning himself to sex as he screws Aramis with a shunt of his body and a roll of the hips, his hand wrapped around his own cock.

Aramis cries out, rigid and shuddering as Athos fucks him to completion, more wild eyed and wanton than Porthos has ever witnessed. He growls in response then drops to all fours, his mouth an inch away from Athos' cock.

"Suck me off," says Athos, less than confident in his demand, the empowerment a little too frightening, tweaking his anxiety levels up a notch.

Porthos distracts him, swallowing his cock greedily, feeling him thicken and swell, pulse against his tongue and then stream with bittersweet fluid. It's liberating, even more so when he's pushed onto his back by his two boys-- _his_ boys--and together they lick, suck, touch him until he's pulling frantically at his cock and coming over their faces.

"We did it," grins Athos, his tongue swiping out sideways to lick up a trickle of semen. "I liked it." He's so fucking proud of himself it's beautiful to behold. "Can we do it again?"

"We've made a monster." Aramis tackles Athos and wrestles him into a full body hug. "No more sex until you bring us coffee in bed, pretty boy."

Porthos watches them play, scratching and nipping at each other and is amazed at how quickly those walls have come tumbling down. He joins in, holding Athos still so that Aramis can tickle him into submission and, Jesus, if they aren't all getting hard again. The coffee break will have to wait until later.

 

\---end


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